


Souvenirs and Trophies

by theghostsofeurope (baronvonehren)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gunplay, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-08-28
Updated: 2011-08-28
Packaged: 2017-10-23 04:43:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/246384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baronvonehren/pseuds/theghostsofeurope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock lifts a Luger P08 from a crime scene and John's world turns upside down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. How Indiscreet

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Prompt: Unmistakably German](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/4256) by holmesiandeduction. 



“ _Oh_ , unmistakably German.” He had murmured, running his fingers over the thin barrel, his eyes flickering upward to catch John’s before he slipped it into his pocket.

 _Theft_ , that had registered.  _But for what reason?_  It joined the other fondly-looked-upon articles on the mantle, next to the skull of an old ‘friend.’ 

‘There are three sorts of serial killers,’ droned the Sunday telly. ‘The thrill seekers, the ones that seek power and control, and those that believe they’re on a mission.’ There was a pause and dramatic music and a slide show, ‘Oftentimes, serial killers take trophies or souvenirs.’  the old man’s dulcet Edinburgh accent duly noted.

John’s eyes darted to the mantel.

The first time, John had gone out for groceries and come back, the flat soundless as if Sherlock had left— _no texts, so he couldn’t have left. He wouldn’t leave without texting_. John padded up the stairs, grocery bags (a loaf of bread, a carton of milk, more tea bags, cold cuts and cheese, etc.) crinkling as they struck his leg. Checking the closet, his coat and scarf were still hanging up. The silence was eerie and it felt as though something other than Sherlock was missing.

When he finished putting the groceries away he paused, suddenly aware of a small sound. A click, barely audible, in the other room, and a— _what was that?_  

His throat became dry and his stomach churned as he pulled off his shoes and attempted to creep down the hall.  _It couldn’t be Sherlock. Sherlock never went into his room for anything except_ —

—John’s face went a bright red as he imagined perhaps the one thing Sherlock might go to his room for and froze. This time the sound was louder. A click and then an audible moan. The hair rose on his arms and the blood rushed in his ears and perhaps elsewhere. His hand was upon the door knob now, the door actually slightly ajar, as if Sherlock had forgotten to close it all the way.

 _Implying that Sherlock would forget anything_ , John thought quickly, the tips of his ears hot.

The door creaked as he pushed it open but Sherlock was too engrossed in his current activity to notice. The barrel of the pistol he had filched from the last crime scene was deep down his throat, and a hand was within his pants. The air in the room seemed especially thick, so thick that John could no longer breathe.

Sherlock’s lips ghosted along, his tongue flicking out to taste the sight.

 _What in the hell?_

John Watson’s heart nearly stopped; he had stopped breathing long enough it was highly possible.

John retreated noiselessly back down the hall and sat, heavily, into his armchair. The sounds from the other room were again, barely audible, but his own thoughts were deafening.


	2. So Insistent

John couldn't push aside the sight of Sherlock's lips around that barrel from his mind; it seemed to stay there, and there was no way for him to empty it from his mind. He lied awake, watching the shadows on the ceiling, his ears listening for slurps and--he swallowed and rolled over, forcing himself into an uneasy, restless sleep.

The next morning was mundane, or at least, mundane for living with Sherlock. John limped down the stairs, nostrils flaring in hopes that tea or coffee had been brewed. There was no such luck. Sherlock did lay upon the couch, feet stretched out and toes splayed, wriggling and flexing as his thumbs typed inhumanly on his phone.

"John", he rumbled, his voice sounding as if he had actually slept. He hadn't the courtesy to look up from his phone but then again, that was expected.

John sighed and put on the kettle, leaning against the countertop. He took care not to set the elbow of his jumper in something that smelled foul and was livid green.

He didn't want to know. _I don't want to know anything._

The muscles of his jaw knotted and he licked his lips. The clicking of keys died off until the only sound between them was the boiling water and the cars in the Autumn streets below.

He had learned that awkward silences with Sherlock weren't really awkward silences at all, perhaps for himself but never for a flat-mate who may not speak for days on end. Still, they usually dragged on, so oppressive they clung like smoke to tweed.

However, this was one of the rare, truly awkward silences.

Sherlock had to have known that he could hear him, just in the other room. He walked right past him to put the gun back in its rightful place, nonchalantly, as though nothing had happened. The idea of what had transpired gave John shivers every time he caught it in the corner of his eye. Which reminded him--

\--John glanced back to the couch and blinked. Sherlock had disappeared. Slinked from the room like a sleek, black cat. He cocked his head, busying himself with making a cup of instant coffee. “Sherlock?”

Silence met him. Then a flurry of action that could be nothing else but Sherlock throwing himself into his coat and scarf. “Lestrade. There's a case. Russel Square.” He was texting again, no doubt insulting the detective inspector while simultaneously vying for more information.

“Is this related to the one in Holborn then?” John abandoned the coffee and was now shouldering on his jacket.

A welcome distraction— _a quadruple homicide, then_. Sherlock would be entertained for days. No more worries of choking down guns and sounds that, even though they were faint, could be heard through the walls and felt in his skin.

“Quite obviously.” Sherlock announced haughtily; it was a sound that brought him relief until he saw the bulge in Sherlock's right pocket.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first real attempt at a Sherlock fanfiction--please comment and add your suggestions! I am always open to suggestions and improvement!


End file.
